


Secret Spy And Super Soldier Shenanigans

by claimedbydaryl



Series: seventy year love story [1]
Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Resolved Sexual Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-07
Updated: 2015-09-07
Packaged: 2018-04-19 12:13:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,214
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4746068
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/claimedbydaryl/pseuds/claimedbydaryl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prompt: Clint and Nat try (multiple times of course) to get Bucky and Steve together and/or catch them doin' the deed.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Secret Spy And Super Soldier Shenanigans

**Author's Note:**

  * For [pietromavximoff](https://archiveofourown.org/users/pietromavximoff/gifts).



**Part I: The Not-So-Mysterious Case Of The Missing Pants**

“Make sure to shower before you meet me on the main floor,” Nat advised, her short, red curls damp with sweat. She ran a small towel over the back of her neck, feigning a casual smile.

Bucky regarded her curiously from the door to his apartment—or, more accurately, his _floor_ —in Stark’s tower, his eyebrows knotted together. She never batted an eyelash if he joined her at their post-workout lunch after forgoing a shower to remain dressed in his usual white T-shirt and loose grey drawstring pants.

“Why do you suddenly care so much about my standards of hygiene?”

A practised, nonchalant shrug. “Because I want to be able to eat a decent sandwich without gagging every two seconds at the stench of you.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed. He wasn’t sure exactly what Nat was playing at, but he had to admit—the seam where metal met flesh on his shoulder was getting awfully clammy.

“Well?” She prompted. “I need to take my own shower without spending all day waiting for you to stop squinting at me, James.”

“I don’t squint,” he argued sullenly, already retreating to the safety of his apartment.

The corner of Nat’s mouth curled triumphantly—she watched as Bucky threw his arm out in a distracted wave before heading towards the bathroom. “See you soon.”

Once he had disappeared from sight, Nat pressed her finger to the almost non-existent communication device in her ear and said, “Mission is a-go. Send in the eagle.”

No less than three minutes later, Clint was running past the door—innocently hanging ajar—to Bucky’s apartment at breakneck speed. A pair of ripped khakis fluttered in his grasp above his head.

“I swear to God, Barton!” Steve shouted, following the archer’s path down the hallway, inexplicably wearing no more than briefs and a long-sleeved T-shirt.

“Language,” he teased before completely _disappearing off the face of the Earth_.

Steve halted, his gaze frantically searching for the man who had taken his pants hostage and promptly vanished into thin air. His hands resting obstinately on his hips, Steve sighed tiredly.

It’s not like he knew Clint was going to practically tear his pants in half during their sparring match. Or that he’d quickly steal them from Steve’s hands in the changing rooms, forcing Captain America to chase him down an inordinate number of halls, flashing apologetic smiles to whoever witnessed the embarrassing spectacle.

He glanced over and noticed the door belonging to Bucky in between angry, I’m-going-to-eviscerate-Barton breaths. With a quick assessing glance to ensure the wily archer was nowhere in the immediate vicinity, he slipped inside Bucky’s apartment on the notion of borrowing a pair of pants. He knew Bucky wouldn’t mind, and besides Thor, he was the only who shared the relative same sized clothes as Steve.

Nat and Clint high-fived from a safe distance further down the hall, grinning at the sight of a half-naked Steve entering the apartment of a—if fate would have it—fully naked Bucky.

Steve treaded into his best friend’s bedroom, his laboured breathing and the loud thrum of his pulse drowning out the sounds of the shower shutting off. He was lost somewhere in the depths of Bucky’s walk-in closet when he heard a creak of footsteps behind him, in the room. He straightened, his jaw clenched tight.

“Okay, Barton, very funny—” The words died in his mouth.

It was Bucky. Fresh from the shower. Wet. Flush with exertion from his training. With a towel slung dangerously low around his waist, revealing a defined V of muscle that lead down to his—

“Um, Steve,” he said, biting his lip. “Why are you in my room? Semi-nude?”

Steve swore he heard Bucky’s voice waver over the words _semi-nude_. Then, realising he was staring at the lean, delectable length of his best friend’s body, his head snapped up. Mouth agape, he started spluttering an apology before noticing that Bucky’s gaze also lingered on the thick, strong muscle of his own legs, and the scrap of dark fabric which left little to the other man’s imagination.

“I—” Steve started, before Bucky’s grip on the towel slipped, sliding impossibly further down over his hips. Steve forced himself to look at the ceiling before babbling, “Barton stole my pants. I mean, I was wearing them. And then he ripped them. We were sparring, actually. So then he stole them—I had to take them off, you see—and I had to chase him. Here. He had disappeared, so, um, I knew you wouldn’t mind. And, I came to find some other pants and then you. Were here. Yeah.”

Bucky stared at him for a beat of silence; Steve’s face steadily growing redder by the second until he burst out laughing. Steve threw him an irritated look before the infectious quality of Bucky’s mirth softened his features into a fond smile.

“Jerk,” he said.

“You’re a punk,” Bucky retorted, alight with laughter. Closing the pace between Steve to find his own set of clothes in the closet, he waved a dismissive hand. “Go on, get dressed.”

His bare arm brushed Steve’s side, the point of contact stretching on a little too long for it to be considered normal, but then Steve pulled back. Bucky would be lying if he didn’t say that he took every opportunity to turn and witness Steve from behind in his full glory, clad in those skin-tight briefs. And when the larger blond bent over to step into a pair of dark-wash jeans Bucky swallowed thickly, praying that the reverential _God bless America_ that slipped past his lips was too quiet for Steve to hear.

Clint and Nat were rendered speechless as Steve and Bucky joined them in the common room five minutes later—unfortunately, fully dressed once again. No change in behaviour. No affirmation of very obvious feelings. No outward displays of affection that were seventy years in the making.

“What did we do wrong?” Clint asked in a hushed whisper. His shocked expression was a direct comparison to Nat’s composure. “I thought the raw animal magnetism of two equally handsome men, within a few mere feet of very naked distance of each other, would send them into a wild bout of lovemaking.”

“Me too,” Nat agreed, her lips pursed in deliberation.

“Change of strategy?”

“Change of strategy.”

**Part II: The Coincidental Instance Of Couples Specials**

“On your left!” Steve said, passing Sam for the third time this morning.

“Don’t you dare—”

“On your right!” Bucky jested, joining Steve already five paces ahead of Sam.

“Hilarious, you two. Really.” Sam deadpanned between breaths. “Comedic gold.”

A few blocks down, Sam found the two super soldiers lounging on a park bench. Bucky was sprawled across it, on leg cocked up and an arm thrown over his face. Steve was leaning over him to grip the top of the wooden seat, using it as support to periodically stretch his legs.

Looking at the distinct lack of space between them, at the show of complete and utter mutual trust and endearing familiarity with another, sometimes even Sam had to wonder how you could spend so long _without knowing_.

“Why do I even bother with you two?” Sam remarked with an exasperated eye roll for good measure, hands resting on his hips indignantly.

Bucky sat up, ducking under the cage of Steve’s arms to smirk at him. “You worried your public appearance may be tarnished after losing to a bunch of ninety-year-olds?”

“No.” Sam crossed his arms across his heaving chest.

Steve and Bucky shared a significant glance, smiles soft and teasing, still well within each other’s personal space—and entirely comfortable with the situation. Steve’s hand was curled over the top slat of wood of the bench, his golden forearm brushing against Bucky’s sloppy bun. And Bucky’s outstretched knees were pressed to Steve’s legs, a steady source of heat and contact that neither seemed willing to sacrifice.

“It’s not even like I’m here half the time,” he mused, reaching out to begin his own set of cool-down stretches.

A distracted moment later, Steve pulled himself out of his longing-filled staring to ask, “What?”

The coffee shop was low-key enough for the three of them to walk in, sweaty and rumpled after their run. Sam stood behind Steve and Bucky in line, texting a quick message to a contact under the name Bird Bro. He was watching the two men speaking in low tones—Bucky grinning and Steve fighting the urge too—before he heard the beginnings of a very interesting conversation.

“Couples special?” The barista asked, looking at Steve and Bucky expectantly.

“Pardon?” Steve’s brow furrowed in confusion.

“Couples special,” the black-haired girl clarified, pointing to the sign behind her, “two large takeaway drinks for the price of one?”

A lack of response followed—Sam with a polite hand covering his amused smile, and Steve and Bucky stunned into silence—before Steve coughed.

“We’re not—” His cheeks pink with colour, he turned to Bucky before swiftly looking away, forcing himself not to reach out and tuck the stray strand of hair behind Bucky’s ear.

“We aren’t—” Bucky stuttered, looking sideways at Steve with large blue eyes, his Adams apple bobbing nervously in his throat.

Sam noticed how even though they oh-so confidentially denied their relationship; they still retained that same close breath of space. Elbows touching. Faces a mere hands-width apart. Gazes darting anywhere but directly at each other.

“So are you sure you don’t want the couples special?” The barista repeated, a wry smile curving her lips—not out of spite, but amusement.

“The boys are just a little shy,” Sam leaned forward between them smugly, “don’t worry. They’ll have the couples special. That’s what couples do, right Bucky?”

The ex-assassin looked about ready to come out of retirement.

“Yeah, sure, we’ll take it.” Steve said, hurriedly listing of their orders to diffuse the situation. When he dared to look at Bucky after being handed his change, he managed a weak, reassuring smile at his best friend’s surprised expression.

“There’s no harm in it, right?” Steve shrugged his shoulders in an obviously casual action, but the movement lacked any real conviction. He was still flushed with embarrassment, a little shy under the knowing gaze of the barista, and then downright bashful when Bucky’s hand slid into his.

It was a sweaty, clumsy hold, but when Sam looked between the two men standing in line at a coffee shop at eight-o’clock in the morning, he knew it was more than that. Their shared smiles were fleeting and fond, fingers tightening without reason. Bucky stepped closer to Steve as if to keep the act up for the sake of appearances, and Sam was sure they had both just leaned in closer—to kiss, maybe—when they were handed their orders.

The moment effectively shattered, the two men stepped apart awkwardly to take their drinks. Sam followed them outside, his own spiced chai latte in hand, and watched as they joked about the whole debacle. Like it didn’t mean anything. Like it was just moment to be forgotten and ignored under the guise of too-bright smiles and too-loud laughs.

He sipped his latte contemplatively, and hoped that Steve and Bucky would get their act together soon enough.

From inside the coffee shop, baseball caps and hoodies masking their faces from the trio of men—one of them smart and the other two astoundingly stupid—who had just departed the café.

The slim, black-haired barista joined them at the table, offering an apologetic, “Sorry guys, I tried my best.”

“It’s fine, Kate,” Clint waved it off, pushing his sunglasses down his nose to look the girl in the eye, “those two are a tough nut to crack, even for us.”

“But they did seem pretty okay with holding hands.” She said hopefully. “They even looked like they were about to kiss for a second there. Like, passionately.”

“They seemed very okay with that prospect,” Clint ruminated wryly.

“I know,” Nat mused.

“New ballpark?” He prompted.

“New stadium.”

**Part III: The Accidental Attendance Of A Romantic Date**

“ _Fight Club_?” Tony said, not looking up from his smartphone.

Clint shook his head. “It’s too violent; pick a movie with a little more magic than that.”

Tony looked shocked to his very core, a dramatic hand clutched to his chest. “Come on, it’s a classic.”

“I said magical, y’know,” Clint started, taking the subject much too seriously, “like a movie where it actually makes them want to do more than share moony-eyed glances and pine for one another.”

“ _Howl’s Moving Castle_?” Bruce supplied quietly.

Nat glanced at him with a decidedly satisfied smile. “Perfect.”

Clint nodded. “Slam dunk.”

Even Tony seemed accepting of the choice. “Nice one, Banner.”

The date was set, and the preparations were made. They had all planned an agreement on holding a night at Stark’s tower which included a homecooked meal and a movie afterward _—“to do something nice that doesn’t directly involve saving the world”_ as Tony put it. Everyone had said they were attending, so Bucky and Steve joined without question.

But, over the course of the day when they were set to have the movie night, the team of superheroes kept excusing their absence from the event. Thor had business to attend to in Asgard. Nat and Clint were being debriefed on something about a mission in Budapest. Tony said he’d already made plans with Pepper weeks ago and almost even apologised. Sam was in D.C.

So, when Bucky was sitting on a stool in the commons room at Stark’s tower, Steve ended his phone call with Banner to say, “Something came up and now even Bruce can’t make it.”

Bucky rested his weight on his elbows, straining not to notice how nice the woodsy musk of Steve’s aftershave smelt, or how good he looked in that tight blue dress shirt. “Well,” he said, “I guess it’s just you and me.”

“Yeah, I guess it is.” Steve wasn’t too fazed by the prospect—especially when strands of dark hair had freed from his bun to frame Bucky’s face, or the pair of black jeans that had practically moulded to his body.

To divert his focus from everything in the room that was directly attached to Bucky, Steve began preparing the meal Tony had so graciously prepared for—pasta with a healthy dose of parmesan cheese, herbs and a thick sauce to serve. Bucky soon helped him in his efforts to not burn the place down.

“Are you kidding me,” Tony cried sometime later, him and several others clustered around the security monitor in his lab. “Look at that,” he pointed at the screen for emphasis. “Bucky just wiped flour from his nose. He just got all up in Steve’s personal space, reached out, and basically stroked the man’s face.”

“I don’t understand how he hasn’t jumped Steve’s bones already.” Clint said.

“I don’t understand how Bucky hasn’t ripped that apron clean of Cap’s spangly ass.”

“Guys,” Nat interjected smoothly, “it looks like the Star-Spangled Man does indeed have a plan, and it will involve slowly undressing James sooner or later.”

Because, in the murky depths of the common room, sharing the space on the same couch although there were many others to choose from, Steve was biting his lip. He was staring at the oblivious Bucky, who was attentively watching the TV screen as Witch of the Waste cursed Sophie in her tacky little hat shop. Steve’s gaze dropping to his best friend’s lips in between furtive glances to _anywhere else_ in the room. He placed his bowl onto the coffee table in front of him and turned to Bucky.

“Um, Buck,” he started, coughing to bely how his voice wavered, “you got a little something—”

“What?” Bucky turned, forking another serve of pasta in his mouth.

Steve blinked once, twice. “You got a little something on your face, here, wait—” He leaned closer, noticing the subtle change in atmosphere—suddenly everything was a lot quieter, and a lot hotter. He tentatively reached forward and brushed the pad of his thumb across Bucky’s chin, right under the flesh of his bottom lip. The touch lingered—Bucky fought the urge to suck Steve’s thumb into his mouth whilst Steve bit his lip in an effort to not cup Bucky’s chin and kiss him senseless.

“Got it?” Bucky prompted, a little breathless.

Steve swallowed thickly. “Got it.”

A thin line of tension was strained taught for the remainder of the movie—not uncomfortable, but merely volatile, like it was ready to snap.

Steve’s knee pressed into Bucky’s when he leaned forward to place his empty bowl on the table, and it hadn’t moved since. Bucky’s arm was thrown casually over the back of the couch when Sullivan was able to discern that Sophie was in love with Howl onscreen. Steve shifted closer when Howl called a disbelieving Sophie beautiful in a field of wildflowers. And Bucky flicked Steve’s ear when Howl kissed Sophie in their flying castle, causing a spontaneous wrestling match. It ended with them both panting, hips slotted together on the length of couch, breathing heavily as Steve pinned Bucky’s hands above his head.

“Come on!” Tony slammed his hand onto the desk a few floors down. “This is ridiculous. They were both practically dry humping.”

All three of them—par a disinterested fourth as Bruce worked quietly in the background—watched as Steve disentangled himself from Bucky, blushing and spluttering some excuse about needing to go wash up. Once he had effectively turned away from Bucky, he mouthed something that would’ve elicited a teasing comment from Clint if he was there. Bucky soon followed, his gaze resting hungrily on the muscled expanse of Steve’s back at the sink. But—as always—they continued acting like everything was normal, like they weren’t the two biggest idiots of the century.

“Seriously. How?” Clint was incredulous.

Nat mirrored his expression. “I really don’t know.

“Okay, that’s it,” Tony threw up his hands. “I’m sorry guys but I really don’t think anything will happen tonight between our favourite geriatrics tonight. And I have stuff to tinker with.”

Bruce voiced his own agreement with Tony’s statement—only with a science-related matter—and soon the four of them said their respective goodbyes before retreating to their own dark corners of the tower.

Sometime later, Nat and Clint were walking to the commons room, ready to fall into the familiar pattern of watching the exceedingly repressed sexual desire remain even more exceedingly repressed between Steve and Bucky.

“Well, it looks like another bust,” Clint sounded dejected. “Maybe we just need to lock them together in a room until they sort their feelings out—”

He was stopped by the sound of a loud moan, a decidedly masculine noise that belonged to none other than Steve Rogers. _Jesus, fuck, Bucky_. A softer whimper soon followed, a plea for _oh, God, Steve, faster_.

Clint turned to look at a wide-eyed Nat, his face contorted into a picture of shock.

“Are they?” Clint asked Nat in a hushed whisper.

“They can’t be—”

“Oh yes,” Steve called out, his voice a little rough but smug nonetheless.

“We so are,” Bucky finished breathlessly.

**Author's Note:**

> I had way too much fun writing this (and I watched Howl's Moving Castle yesterday, so sue me).
> 
> Come find me on [tumblr](http://diggitydamnsebastianstan.tumblr.com/)


End file.
